


County Fair Pony

by Azzandra



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bondage, Dom/sub, I don't know how much clearer I can state that, M/M, PWP, Smut, just porn, there is no plot there is only sexings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 15:08:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azzandra/pseuds/Azzandra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Does this even warrant a description? It's exactly what it says in the tags.</p>
            </blockquote>





	County Fair Pony

**Author's Note:**

> This was a Christmas gift for a friend on tumblr. She really likes Dirk/Equius. So I wrote her some Dirk/Equius. Oh yeah, and also I have a [tumblr.](http://azzandra.tumblr.com) Anyway, enjoy.

You already knew Dirk was quick, but now you are starting to realize that he is also quiet. You have an inkling that he might be moving around, by the way his voice comes from different directions, but you don’t hear his steps, or even a rustle. For creatures which live in the light, Dirk has taken quite well to the shadows.

And that is the other part of it. As a troll, you know your night vision is vastly superior to that of humans. Dirk must know this too, which is why he has instructed you to kneel in the middle of the room, under a single glowing light bulb. The light it emits is a bit too sharp, a bit too harsh… you can see nothing outside the very small cone of light, and you are forced to keep your eyes to the ground in order to avoid the discomfort the bright light causes.

You wonder what Dirk is doing in the shadows, assuming he is doing anything at all other than making you wait.

“Might we get started?” you ask, a bit peevishly perhaps.

“What makes you think we haven’t started already, blueboy?” Dirk replies slowly. He is somewhere behind you and slightly to the left, if you’re not mistaken.

And then he is right over your shoulder. His hand fists in your hair and your head is pulled back suddenly. It doesn’t hurt, exactly, but your jaw hangs slack and your face is now aimed towards the light bulb. Your eyes start watering.

“You be good now,” he murmurs into your ear, and you can _feel_  the smirk in his voice, “and we’re going to have a grand ol’ time here. But be bad, and—” He tightens his grip on your hair, making your scalp sting. “Got that?”

“Yes, sir,” you manage to grit out.

Just as soon as he grabbed you, he releases your hair and disappears from your side instantly. You are left panting, though not from anything resembling pain. Your mouth is curiously dry, but the rest of you is rapidly becoming soaked.

“That’s the spirit,” Dirk says.

He speaks smugly, with all the bravado of an inferior daring to speak out of line to someone above his station. You turn that thought over in your mind, let it steep.

“Now, because you’re such a good boy, you’re going to take your shirt off,” Dirk instructs next.

“Yes, sir.”

You pull your tank top over your head, but you’re not sure what to do with it once you have it off. You hold it, the blue of your symbol a sharp reminder of how much you’re debasing yourself. If you weren’t sweating before, you certainly start to do so now.

“What do you want me to do with this, sir?” you ask, and lick your lips in anticipation.

Dirk doesn’t reply, but in a sudden blur of motion, the shirt disappears from your hands. You have your answer.

“Hands behind your back,” Dirk instructs.

You suspect what he intends, and your intuition proves correct when he starts tying your wrists with your own shirt.

“Surely you must realize that such a flimsy bond will not hold me,” you tell him.

Dirk chuckles deep in his chest.

“You’ll make sure not to rip it,” he replies. “Because if you do,” and now his hand comes around to the front of your to trace over the vestigial grubleg scars on the sides of your torso, “if you shred your shirt, then you’ll have to walk back to your room like this.” He emphasizes his point by dragging his nails over the skin of your chest. His flimsy human claws are no match for troll skin, so he does not wound you, but the feel of each one of his fingers send sharp shivers running up and down your spine like icy prickles. “And then everybody will know what you’ve been up to.”

You swallow back a whimper.

Your hands now secured behind your back, Dirk retreats once again to the shadows. You huff in frustration—you were certainly imagining something a bit more hands-on when you agreed to this—and Dirk chuckles again.

“If you could kindly get on with it,” you mutter.

“Getting mouthy, are we?” Dirk asks.

You brace yourself for punishment, but nothing happens at first. You listen and you look into the dark edges of the room, but you can’t identify Dirk’s position. The mix of uncertainty and anticipation is potent now, and you understand why Dirk chose this… strategy.

You relax only a fraction, but your guard is down nonetheless. Dirk flashsteps behind you. One of his hand firmly grabs your unbroken horn, and the other flattens against your lower back. In one motion, he raises you from your haunches onto your knees proper, and then pushes you forward. You almost move your hands to catch yourself, until you remember the shirt, and by the time you can think to brace yourself in some other way, you are already lying face-down on the ground. Dirk is at least careful that you don’t crack your face against the concrete floor, but the result is the same.

Your breathing is somewhat restricted as the ground pushes against your torso like this, and you assume this is part of your punishment.

“From now on, the only thing allowed to come out of your mouth is ‘yes, sir’. Anything else and I stop. That clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Look how much more agreeable you are like this,” Dirk remarks casually, and then shamelessly fondles your buttock. You hiss between your broken teeth, but there is nothing you can do, and he knows it. He gives it a slap for good measure, and you inadvertently moan.

The sound echoes in the room and bounces back at you. You feel yourself flush in embarrassment, yes, but you also feel the cold wetness of your nook when you tighten your thighs together. You can’t see Dirk, but you can picture his smugness quite well.

“You like that?” he asks, bringing his lips close to your ear. “You like getting your ass beat by some candy-red-blooded peasant?” He slaps your bottom again, and you feel it all the way to your nook this time; you gasp at the sensation. “You like getting straddled like a fucking county fair pony and ridden all day by a shameless alien?” Another slap. “Do you? I don’t hear an answer.”

“Yes, sir,” you gasp out.

“Giddy up,” Dirk growls, and slaps you again. Your nook clenches, eager for something to fill it. You feel like a wanton whore, and the humiliation is darkly delicious.

But you feel as if you are not getting enough air. You shift your position, trying to lessen the pain in your chest. Dirk probably realizes your problem, because he hooks his fingers under the belt of your shorts and pulls up. You scramble to obey, and set your knees against the ground to lift your lower half. Dirk does not allow you to raise your head from the ground, however. Your breathing is no longer constricted, but your shoulder and knees are taking the brunt of your weight.

“You like making things easier for me, huh?” Dirk says, his hand going over your bottom, caressing each cheek in turn. It’s maddening how his hand doesn’t stray any closer to where you want it, especially since in this position, your nook feels more exposed. “You’re a good boy when you remember who’s in charge, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” you say.

“Well, a good boy gets a treat,” Dirk says.

He sets himself down on his knees behind you. You can only just see him from the corner of your eye, but you arch your back in anticipation.

“Sit still,” he instructs, and you obey. He pushed your calves together and sets his own legs on the outside of yours. Your nook aches to be— filled, touched, anything at all, as long as something was going to be done to it.

But Dirk reaches around you, to your front, and unbuttons your shorts. Then, slowly but deliberately, he pulls them down, underwear and all. The air is cold against your skin, and without anything to stop it, your bulge unsheathes completely, writhing in search of stimulation. Dirk can surely see all this from his position.

He makes a pleased sound.

“Looks like someone’s eager to get his timecard punched,” Dirk says. “Sorry, you’ll have to finish your shift at the county fair before you get your carrot at the end of the day. Get your ass ridden raw until you need a rubdown.”

His words are just as nonsensical as ever, but you understand an innuendo as well as any troll.

“Yes, sir,” you say, hoping this will spur Dirk into doing the things that he is speaking about. Probably. Assuming the things he is speaking about at the things you hope he is speaking about, otherwise you are getting worked up over the wrong convoluted metaphors.

He doesn’t touch either your nook or your bulge. Instead, he puts both hands against your upper thighs and spreads your cheeks wide.

“Let’s see what this pony has under the tail, shall we?” Dirk all but purrs.

You can feel genetic material dripping down your legs. You can only imagine the sight before Dirk’s eyes, of your most intimate parts spread open before him, exposed, outrageously lewd, unbefitting of one of your rank…

You whimper, and try to spread your legs, but your shorts are pooled around your knees, limiting your range of motion. Your bulge is restless, writhing against the inside of your legs mindlessly, but it is your nook that aches with arousal.

“Whoa, boy,” Dirk says, and slaps your butt cheek. This time, without the fabric to muffle anything, the slap sounds much louder.

“Yes, sir, yes, sir, please, sir…”

“Ah-ah, what did I say?” Dirk tuts. “Anything other than ‘yes, sir’ and I leave. Am I to understand that was a slip of the tongue?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And am I to understand that you want me to stay here and continue what I’m doing?”

More like begin doing it in the first place, you think, but, “Yes, sir.”

“That’s the spirit,” Dirk says.

His fingers tighten around the base of your bulge. You almost keen, though it’s not the kind of stimulation you desire most. At this point, you will take it.

His grip is strange, not how a troll would handle a bulge, certainly. But not unpleasant. He makes a sort of… milking motion. Tugs it, from the base down its length. It’s odd, but titillating nonetheless. You make sounds that, were you in full control of your wits, you would be ashamed of.

Dirk makes a thoughtful hum, and you feel his thumb trace a path to the root of your bulge. It pauses at the slit of your nook, and then it slips inside. Your breath hitches, but it’s still an exploratory gesture, not very firm.

He inserts his thumb inside your nook to the first knuckle and pushes down slightly. You moan at the pressure on your shame globes. Dirk removes his thumb, and you almost weep out of frustration, but it’s soon replaced by two other fingers.

The feelers inside your nook licks at his fingers greedily, seeking out a bulge. Dirk wiggles his fingers a bit—too little compared to what you need. You make a pleading noise.

This pleases him, because he continues to just casually wiggle his fingers. The feelers begin moving in earnest at the stimulation, undulating inside you, demanding. At one point, Dirk catches one of the feelers between his fingers and tugs on it playfully, twisting it between his fingers gently, and you feel it in your whole body, a wave of heat and a surge of unexpected pleasure radiating from your nook to the tips of your horn and leaving you needier than before.

Your hips move of their own accord. You squirm, trying to relieve the demands of your body, but Dirk is mercilessly slow and soft-handed. The frustration only arouses you further, however, which in turn leads you to becoming yet more frustrated, as if your body has become an echo chamber for need and pleasure. Each time you think that you cannot possibly take any more, you  _do_.

“Ready for a ride?” Dirk asks, and he sounds winded somehow. You twist your head to get a glimpse of him, and by the pink flush to his face, you can see he is not as aloof and unaffected as he would like.

“Yes, sir,” you reply.

His fingers leave your nook. There is the sound of a zipper, and rustle, and then…

Something hot and solid is pushed into your nook. The sensation is—alien. It must be Dirk’s bulge, though it’s strangely stiff. But oh, it stretches you out so pleasantly, it feels so good against your feelers. You can feel them part around Dirk’s bulge, you feel them being pushed back against the walls of your nook. Then Dirk is pressed inside you to the hilt, and you almost bemoan the rigidity of his bulge and the lack of motion.

He pulls out, but not completely. And then he pushes in again. Oh. You clench your nook around him involuntarily. He pulls out, and presses inside again. You don’t even try stopping the moans.

He picks up speed then, going at a steady pace, and then faster. Your moans turn to rapid gasps. Waves of sensation wash over you each time, and one doesn’t have the time to break before another starts. It adds up, rapidly. More and more and more and—

It builds up, so much at once, you try to keep a hold of it, all the pleasure, hold it all inside you for a few moments longer, but it’s all subsumed to a burning, mindless need, a bone-deep satisfaction just within reach and then it overflows, overwhelms you.

Everything goes blank for a few glorious seconds, and the world is blotted out completely by white noise and warmth.

You come down smoothly from your orgasm, regaining your senses as your nook squirts out its last few drops of genetic material. You realize you’ve ripped through your shirt and your hands are free, cushioning your head on the ground. Your shoulder aches horribly and feels stiff, but not enough to bother you at the moment.

Dirk is lying by your side, on his back, with his arms folded under his head.

“You did not use a pail,” you gasp out breathlessly.

“Nah.”

“My clothes are ruined.”

Dirk smirks and shows you a card from his sylladex. He seems to have one of your outfits captchalogued. You suspect Nepeta has a paw in this.

“Kick back and enjoy the afterglow now,” Dirk grumbles. “We’ll be packing up this pony show soon.”

“Yes, sir,” you deadpan.

Dirk only smirks.


End file.
